Her secret was listening to flowers.
She often used to hear fields full of growth,
to hear waves of noise rolling through her.
She whispered to all that would listen,
"I hear shifting things existing within me:
budding movements touching roots and chords."
The heedless couldn't hear such vibrations,
such embryonic ways fresh sprung from the earth.
She carried daughters and their daughters within,
and expressed herself in kind: offering
her lyrics of delights for protection,
to fend off predators stalking their prey.
When she reached home, she knew the swooping birds
were perfectly shaped, being spherical,
and so were divinely built for unity.
Which made the plaintive call of the night owl
and its transformation into silent flight,
ever more eerily significant.
She knew the owl had been the baker's daughter,
and such wicked behaviour was always
going to be punished by autumn's progeny.
But her secret was listening to flowers.
And so, she continued to tell her daughters
and their daughters to listen - for murmurs.